Drops of Misery Flood His Burning Throat
by The Bitch Who Died
Summary: He learns to drown out the feelings in the pit of his stomach. /or/ When he's sober, he tries to like her better when she's a safe distance away. He fails. \One-shot/ mentions of and implied sex (you voted on it) [thundercest] [max/phoebe] R


He stumbles into the living room, guffawing like mad with a pretty little thing — Ashley, or something like that, he never remembers their name — under his arm. A brunette. He likes brunettes. Always has, always will. But "always" began when she named him King and herself Queen in the Kingdom of the Impossible and his lips pecked hers.

The pretty little thing under his arm trips and they both go down.

It's a lustful wreck of skin and lips and tongue and he's pretty sure that if he were sober, he'd hate it. She straddles him, a giggling mess, and her fingers clumsily take to unbuttoning his shirt. All that godawful laughing is killing him and he'd probably be limp if she wasn't grinding her core into him — besides, the freaking couch is lumpy and all he can think about is the _wrong_ girl (but she's only wrong because of some fucking sick joke played by the gods, damn that blood they share).

He'd be lying if he said he didn't need to be more than a little tipsy to like this.

But then she's pulling off her shirt and her bra is God knows where so he makes use of his hands — trying not to let his vision blur her into the wrong girl because even if he picked her up at a bar with a fake ID, he and her would be less frowned upon than the girl burned in the back of his brain.

Kiss, kiss, kiss — tongue, groping, moaning; it's sickening if he thinks too much.

And then she screams like they always do — "oh, _God! _Max!" He hates it most when they get his name right.

* * *

The sun rises and the pretty little thing slips out, leaving her panties and a phone number for him but all he can do is rub his temple and make coffee before picking up the mess.

He only ever does this when they're all over at Cousin Blobbin's so he doesn't have to worry about the disgusted eyes or wary smiles.

Everything is in place when they re-enter the door — including his laid back smirk and the insult for the wrong girl.

She rolls her eyes and says something witty he barely catches because maybe he's staring just a little at her. The second they're out of sight, he slips out a bottle and cracks it open. If being sober still means feeling that way he'll just have to fix the sober part.

* * *

He chugs down the liquor in a few minutes and chucks the bottle at the wall. He stopped cringing at the deafening crack awhile ago.

Dr. Colosso hasn't.

Not that Max cares. All he knows right now is that he needs another bottle to drown his tastebuds in and to strangle whatever the hell these feelings in the pit of his stomach are.

(He'd be lying if he said he didn't know what they are though.)

Wrong is always the first adjective to come to mind, then sick, then messed up, then disgusting, then twisted, then disturbed, and finally, love.

Or something like that — he doesn't care that much, he just wants another ice cold beer.

* * *

She's in the kitchen when he sneaks up to get a new bottle from his stash.

Maybe he should mention how short her shorts are or the way they slide up her thighs as she tries to grab something from the top shelf. And maybe he should just slip back down before he loses it and breaks what he's worked so hard to keep locked up. But then again, she knows how stupid her twin is.

"Nice shorts, sis," sarcasm drenches the wry comment, venom is thinly veiled.

She almost jumps but instead glares, "shut up and help me get this."

He snorts. And in all honesty, he should stay a safe distance away from her but he's never been very good at taking advice. Which is exactly his excuse for his hands molding against her hips and raising up so she can reach.

She squeaks like a toy.

"God, Pheebs, I thought you wanted my help," he teases, trying to keep his hormones under lockdown.

It takes everything in him not to pull her shorts down and make love to her then and there.

When she's long gone with a red face and mumbled excuses, he grabs his bottle and hops on his slide. He doesn't like being sober around her.

* * *

Sometimes, the alcohol still burns when it slides down his throat.

But it always clouds the blood they share. He's long decided that's worth it. But right now, there's a pretty little blonde thing checking him out.

Blonde.

He doesn't usually go for blonde girls — except in front of his family to throw them off. He shrugs off Cole Campbell's alerts to the pretty little blonde thing and mumbles about liking brunettes.

"Like your sister?" The disgust in the slur is evident and Max doesn't like that.

His fist swings into Cole's eye and so Cole stumbles out of the party with a greenish purple bruise. But damn it, Cole was his ride. "Fuck, shit, cunt," he grumbles on his way home.

* * *

Phoebe tries to help him down the stairs when he gets home but he shrugs her off too. Another string of swears leave his mouth and she hums in disapproval before forcing his arm around her so he won't pass out on the couch. She figured out what happens when the family is out at Cousin Blobbins the week it started.

(And if he's honest, he loves how she can figure out these things.)

He trips at the edge of his bed and they both go down.

Skin against skin — isn't this familiar? Her face flushes and he finally screws everything up like he knew he would. His lips are on hers in a second.

Because drunk or sober, right or wrong, she's still the girl burned into his brain. And maybe he's the boy carved into her heart.

* * *

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It'll serve as feedback & motivation for my writing tricks,

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- Queen Alison the Obstinate

P.S. Just because this is the 3rd fic I've published this week doesn't mean you can't review the other 2. Which really means, review the fucking fics I've published. The signature at the end should tip you off to that.


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